There was a woman whose bones wanted to dance right out of her skin. Peeling the skin back from her mouth, her lips expanded to accommodate her nose before, with a loud rip, her skull popped through. Shrugging off her shoulder pads, she shimmied and twisted, tendons and nerve endings getting woefully caught in the folds of her skin and the ball-and-socket joints. With bared teeth, she tore the last loose nerves, the sensitive tags scratching, before stepping out of her own soles. A triumphant final stance, preparation for a tango, and with no partner to catch her, she clattered to the linoleum in disarray, embarrassed to be so graceless.
There was a man whose veins ran thick with flies. The perpetual buzzing ensured his solitude, which was as he liked it. Things got clogged quickly though, as the flies grew and swelled and refused to move and died. At the hospital, they tried to leech him, and then they tried to spider him, with much greater success, though the nurses in their neatly pressed white caps and skirts refused to come near him, which was as he liked it.
For a while now, the cat had refused to stop philosophizing. In the morning, pawing at the bedroom door, it begged not for attention but for the purpose of its existence. While on her lap, refusing to purr or show any sign of affection, it pondered the distinction between the petting and the essence of the petting. When finally left outside by the train tracks, the cat monologued to the moon on the nature of time and the folly of concern beyond the now, until the moon left as well in haste.